did.
Brough leaned over and stirred the stew. 'Hey, you guys, it's boiling.'
They all crowded around. Yes, it was really boiling.
'We'd better fix the window. The stuff'll start smelling in a minute.'
They put a blanket over the barred outlet, and soon the cell was all perfume.
Mac, Larkin and Tex squatted against the wall, eyes on the stewpan.
Peter Marlowe, sat on the other side of the bed, and as he was nearest, from time to time he stirred the pot.
The water simmered gently, making the delicate little beans soar crescentlike to the surface, then cascade back into the depths of the liquid.
A puff of steam effervesced, bringing with it the true richness of the meatbuds. The King leaned forward and threw in a handful of native herbs, turmeric, kajang, huan, taka and cloves and garlic, and this added to the perfume.
When the stew had been bubbling ten minutes, the King put the green papaya into the pot.
'Crazy,' he said. 'A feller could make a fortune after the war if he could figure a way to dehydrate papaya. Now that'd tenderize a buffalo!'
'The Malays've always used it,' Mac answered, but no one was really listening to him and he wasn't listening to himself really, for the steam -
rich, sweet surrounded them.
The sweat dribbled down their chests and chins and legs and arms. But they hardly noticed the sweat or the closeness. They only knew that this was not a dream, that meat was cooking — there before their eyes, and soon, very soon they would eat.
'Where'd you get it?' asked Peter Marlowe, not really caring. He just had to say something to break the suffocating spell.
'It's Hawkins' dog,' answered the King, not thinking about anything except my God does that smell good or does that smell good!
'Hawkins' dog?'
'You mean Rover?'
'His dog?'
'I thought it was a small pig!'
'Hawkins' dog?'
'Oh my word!'
'You mean that's the hindquarters of Rover?' said Peter Marlowe, appalled.
'Sure,' the King said. Now that the secret was out he didn't mind. 'I was going to tell you afterwards, but what the hell? Now you know.'
They looked at one another aghast.
Then Peter Marlowe said, 'Mother of God. Hawkins' dog!'
'Now look,' said the King reasonably. 'What's the difference? It was certainly the cleanest-eatingest dog I've ever seen. Much cleaner'n any pig. Or chicken for that matter. Meat's meat. Simple as that!'
Mac said testily, 'Quite right. Nothing wrong with eating dog. The Chinese eat them all the tune. A delicacy. Yes. Certainly.'
'Yeah,' said Brough, half nauseated. 'But we're not Chinese and this's Hawkins' dog!'
'I feel like a cannibal,' said Peter Marlowe.
'Look,' the King said. 'It's just like Mac said. Nothing wrong with dog.
Smell it, for Chrissake.'
'Smell it!' said Larkin for all of them. It was hard to talk, his saliva almost choking him. 'I can't smell anything but that stew and it's the greatest smell I've ever smelled and I don't care whether it's Rover or not, I want to eat.' He rubbed his stomach, almost painfully. 'I don't know about you bastards, but I'm so hungry I've got cramps. That smell's doing something to my metabolism that's just not ordinary.'
'I feel sick, too. And it's got nothing to do with the fact that the meat's dog,' said Peter Marlowe. Then he added almost plaintively, 'I just don't want to eat Rover.' He glanced at Mac. 'How are we going to face Hawkins afterwards?'
'I don't know, laddie. I'll look the other way. Yes, I don't think I could face him.' Mac's nostrils quivered and he looked at the stew. 'That smells so good.'
'Of course,' the King said blandly, 'anyone don't want to eat can leave.'
No one moved. Then they all leaned back, lost in their own thoughts.
Listening to the bubble. Drinking in the fragrance. Magnificence.
'It's not shocking when you think of it,' said Larkin, more to persuade himself than the others. 'Look how affectionate we get with our hens. We don't mind eating them — or their eggs.'
'That's right, laddie. And you remember that cat we caught and ate. We didn't mind that, did we, Peter?'
'No, but that was a stray. This is Rover!'
'It was! Now it's just meat.'
